It was not strange, perhaps, all things considered, that John had come even to nearly six-and-twenty with no more settled intentions; that his boyhood should have been so long. He was not at all of a reckless disposition, and, notwithstanding the desultory way in which he had spent time, he had strong mental and moral fiber, and was capable of feeling deeply and enduringly. He had been desultory, but never before had he had much reason or warning against it. But now, he reflected, a time had come. Work he must, if only for work’s sake, and work he would; and there was a touch of self-reproach in the thought of his father’s increasing years and of his lonely life. He might have been a help and a companion during those two years of his not very fruitful European sojourn, and he would lose no time in finding out what there was for him to do, and in setting about it.
VII
The day seemed very long. He ate his luncheon, having first paid a visit to Ann, who gave him an effusive welcome. Jeffrey waited, and during the meal they had some further talk, and among other things John said to him, “Does my father dress for dinner nowadays?”
“No, sir,” was the reply, “I don’t know when I’ve seen your father in his evenin’ clothes, sir. Not for a long time, and then maybe two or three times the past year when he was going out to dinner, but not here, sir. Maybe it’ll be different now you’re back again, sir.”
After luncheon John’s luggage arrived, and he superintended the unpacking, but that employment was comparatively brief. The day dragged with him. Truly his homecoming was rather a dreary affair. How different had been yesterday, and the day before, and all those days before when he had so enjoyed the ship life, and most of all the daily hour or more of the companionship which had grown to be of such surpassing interest to him, and now seemed so utterly a thing of the past.
Of course, he should see her again. (He put aside a wonder if it would be within the proprieties on that evening or, at latest, the next.) But, in any case, “the episode,” as he had said to her, was done, and it had been very pleasant—oh, yes, very dear to him. He wondered if she was finding the day as interminable as it seemed to him, and if the interval before they saw each other again would seem as long as his impatience would make it for him. Finally, the restless dullness became intolerable. He sallied forth into the weather and went to his club, having been on nonresident footing during his absence, and, finding some men whom he knew, spent there the rest of the afternoon.
His father was at home and in his room when John got back.
“Well, father,” he said, “the prodigal has returned.”
“He is very welcome,” was the reply, as the elder man took both his son’s hands and looked at him affectionately. “You seem very well.”
“Yes,” said John; “and how are you, sir?”
“About as usual, I think,” said Mr. Lenox.
They looked at each other for a moment in silence. John thought that his father seemed thinner than formerly, and he had instantly observed that a white beard covered the always hitherto smooth-shaven chin, but he made no comment.
“The old place appears very familiar,” he remarked. “Nothing is changed or even moved, as I can see, and Ann and Jeff are just the same old sixpences as ever.”
“Yes,” said his father, “two years make less difference with old people and their old habits than with young ones. You will have changed more than we have, I fancy.”
“Do we dress for dinner?” asked John, after some little more unimportant talk.
“Yes,” said his father, “in honor of the occasion, if you like. I haven’t done it lately,” he added, a little wearily.
“I haven’t had such a glass of wine since I left home,” John remarked as they sat together after dinner.
“No,” said his father, looking thoughtfully at his glass, “it’s the old ‘Mouton,’ and pretty nearly the last of it; it’s very old and wants drinking,” he observed as he held his glass up to get the color. “It has gone off a bit even in two years.”
“All right,” said John cheerfully, “we’ll drink it to save it, if needs be.” The elder man smiled and filled both glasses.
There had been more or less talk during the meal, but nothing of special moment. John sat back in his chair, absently twirling the stem of his glass between thumb and fingers. Presently he said, looking straight before him at the table: “I have been thinking a good deal of late—more than ever before, positively, in fact—that whatever my prospects may be,” (he did not see the momentary contraction of his father’s brow) “I ought to begin some sort of a career in earnest. I’m afraid,” he continued, “that I have been rather unmindful, and that I might have been of some use to you as well as myself if I had stayed at home instead of spending the last two years in Europe.”
“I trust,” said his father, “that they have not been entirely without profit.”
“No,” said John, “perhaps not wholly, but their cash value would not be large, I’m afraid.”
“All value is not to be measured in dollars and cents,” remarked Mr. Lenox. “If I could have acquired as much German and French as I presume you have, to say nothing of other things, I should look back upon the time as well spent at almost any cost. At your age a year or two more or less—you don’t realize it now, but you will if you come to my age—doesn’t count for so
